Miasma
by Assimbya
Summary: Guessing the will of the gods can be difficult. Macbeth set in Archaic Greece.


The sun was hot over his head, and he could feel the leather of his armor stiffening with blood, smell the stink of it on his skin. It was a long way yet to the camp, and he felt dizzy with thirst, so that the air was hazy with it. He and Banquo were keeping to the shore, making their way over the jagged rocks and hot sand with the certainty that this way at least they could keep from again getting lost, that they would at some point find the ship and camps. But his body was worn out with battle, and each step seemed to drain him further. The edge of his shield banged against his calf, and he could image the bruise forming beneath, swelling.

He thought of his wife undressing him when he reached home again, easing the blood from his skin and asking him how many men he had killed, pressing her lips to the bruise.

Then, inexplicably, there were voices, the rhythmic beating of a drum. He could see torchlight flickering from within the recesses of a cave before them, movement in the dark.

He felt drawn, as though by a cord at his sternum, as though one of the Moirai twisted the strand of his fate around her fingers, tight, almost to snapping. He stepped inside.

The dark was overwhelming after the brightness of the sunlight outside. He saw gray eyes, hands with yellowed fingernails like claws, then three old women, bodies draped in dark cloth so that he could hardly see them except when the torchlight fell upon them. Their voices were low and rough, like waves crashing on the shore.

"Kaire, Macbeth," one of them said, "who shall one day reign as tyrant over all this land."

* * *

The letter came to her coded and sealed for her eyes alone, rolled within the staff which only the key she held could unlock. She took it into a back room and read it alone, devouring the words ravenously, consuming them. Here was a future for them, here was potential and possibility and glory.

The future had seemed sealed and inaccessible to her in the past years, since their child's life sputtered out like an oil lamp, and she had found herself alone upon the barren, rocky island which was her husband's kingdom, closed within its narrow confines while her husband fought for another man's honor. She sat often, motionless at her loom, and imagined his armour gleaming in the sun, his horsehair helm like a beacon while he moved swiftly, decisively, the gods of battle breathing strength into his limbs. But for her there was no glory, only the endless tedium of the everyday, only a household to manage and offerings to make, only the the clatter of the shuttle at her loom as she wove among her serving women, undistinguishable from them in her faded wool (for she could hardly justify wearing anything better, not in this isolated, lonely place).

She knew, as her legs twitched with the need for movement, that when her son died she had lost the only avenue to glory which had been open to her, the only chance she had to live on beyond herself, to have a voice in the future even from within the dank halls of Hades. Her husband might, for his prowess in battle, win a place in undying song, but no one would ever sing of his childless, sharp-minded wife.

But now - here her husband's name was written in prophecy, and here, then, was a place for her too, queen at his side, decked in gold and deciding the fate of a great city, reigning with dignity and honor.

She tore up the letter and scattered it to the winds, and then made the sacrifice herself, cutting the hen's throat and letting it pool, dark, upon the earth. She dedicated it to Hecate, goddess of the crossroads, praying that she might open up this future to them, might grant the strength and courage and clarity of mind to let them see the way forward. She opened her palms over the earth, the dense smell of the blood making her dizzy, and felt heat beneath them. The goddess was listening. The goddess would bless her.

* * *

Macbeth turned on her, horror contorting his features. "You are suggesting that we betray our guest-friend, murder him while he resides under own roof. Do you want to bring down Zeus' wrath upon both our heads?"

She gripped his hands in hers, feeling her knuckles tighten with the force of her conviction. "This is what the gods _want,_ my lord - why else would they have granted this prophecy to you? The kingship is your fate, and it would be only foolishness to deny it."

He did not pull his hands away, but neither did he meet her gaze. "There must be another way. If it is the gods' will that I be king, then surely they can effect that prophecy themselves."

Frustration roiled in her. "The gods do not act on us like a craftsman moulding a piece of clay. They expect us to aim for glory ourselves. And here they have granted you the person opportunity - Duncan within our grasp, weak and vulnerable. Ignoring it would be like a runner turning away from the final goal. And the land needs a strong, courageous king, one tested in battle, not like Duncan or his milky sons. You know this as well as I."

His voice lowered, and he spoke with urgency. "My lady, you do not know what it is to have your hands steeped in blood, to feel the weight of the deaths you have caused lying heavy upon you. You cannot understand what it is you ask of me."

She pulled her hands away from his and stepped back, feeling the heavy fabric of her chiton swirl around her knees at the movement. "What, do you think that women know nothing of blood? By the two goddesses, if you will not do this deed, then I will kill Duncan myself. Perhaps by poison, the woman's way, if you think I am too weak to wield a knife. Or will you act the man and take up the weapon yourself?"

He reached towards her. "Let us at least think longer -"

She pulled away. "I would have sacrificed our child myself if he had stood between you and this divine glory. Are you more cowardly than that?"

* * *

Duncan, who tired easily in his old age, left the banquet early, while men stayed below, drunk with wine and song. The bard and aulos player continued through the night, and only faintly could anyone hear his final screams.

* * *

There was a storm on the day when Macbeth took up the scepter of kingship, with his wife beside him. Thunder bellowed so loud that the priest had to shout to be heard above it, and again and again, lightning streaked across the sky. The sacrificial animals were restless and frightened, and some turned away from the altar so that the sacrifice had to be stopped at the final moment.

There were whispers that all of these were powerful ill-omens, indications that Macbeth should step aside and grant the throne to Malcolm. But, if anyone asked the new king and queen, one of them would shake their head and laugh. "Zeus the thunderer himself is honoring my husband's coronation with his presence!" his lady told them, "How could any mortal disagree?"

At the banquet, though, the new king interrupted the bard's song with his own shrieking, his voice inhuman, like that of a bird swooping over the remains of a battlefield.

* * *

They turned her away at Eleusis. "There is blood on your hands," the priestess told her, "you cannot be initiated. The Mysteries are barred to murderers."

She was surrounded by her own ladies, and by the wives of her husband's lords and soldiers, and felt herself shamed and terrified. The eyes upon her were sharp as needle pricks. She was faint already, with her days of fasting, and as she stood before the priestess, it seemed to her that the air itself was filled with the smell of blood.

"There must be some mistake -" she began, but the priestess interrupted her.

"The goddess Demeter does not make mistakes. You may come no further. Return to your own house and think on how you might cleanse the stain upon your soul."

As she stood, shocked into silence, it seemed to her that blood was running down her shoulders and arms, dripping around the curve of her elbows, and finally pooling in her outstretched palms, red and viscous. It clung to her skin, and she found she could not wipe it off, whatever she tried.

* * *

One evening, he went back to the cave where he first saw the witches. They were there still, just as he had remembered them, with their torches and cymbals and bright, terrifying eyes. "What do I do?" he asked them, "How do I survive this? What will happen to us?"

They smiled. "Haven't you had enough of prophecy?" the first asked, with a voice like the rasp of an owl.

He stepped forward, into the torchlight, and shook his head. "What must I sacrifice?" he asked.

Across the sea, alone in their palace, his wife strung up a noose.


End file.
